


Blood and Bone

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hogwarts Chamber of Secrets, Mystery, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Well - Freeform, as much as possible with riddle anyway, but there will be a twist on that!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28135125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After the opening of the Chamber of Secrets leads to the death of a Hogwarts student, Tom Riddle returns for his sixth year intent to keep any suspicion away from his involvement. But fellow Slytherin Maeve Rosier knows Riddle is hiding something. The problem is, Maeve has secrets of her own-dangerous secrets that the future Dark Lord wants to uncover for himself...
Relationships: Tom Riddle/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 12





	1. Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome!
> 
> There are not too many Tom Riddle/OC stories out there but my goal for this one is to take it down a path that's maybe not seen in others. This will be a long fic, extremely slow burn (it is Riddle we're talking about, after all), with hopefully some twists along the way. 
> 
> Riddle will definitely be toxic at some points, and since it IS Riddle, the story will get a lot darker as it progresses. However, I will be sure to include any and all proper warnings at the beginning of each chapter once we get to that point. 
> 
> Happy reading!

Maeve Rosier eyed the scarlet steam engine squatting before her in disgust.

The Hogwarts Express gleamed and belched white smoke over Platform 9 ¾ and the milling students and parents gathered on it, ready to bear its passengers back to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for another school year. Children and teenagers alike boarded the train, happy and laughing, excited to return to their beloved school.

It sickened her.

“You can stop looking at the train like you’re contemplating blowing it up,” Madoc said beside her with a sly grin. “Mother and Father probably already warned the conductor. They’ll have taken precautions against you.”

She threw him a poisonous glare. Though Madoc was her identical twin in looks, he shared no similarities with her in anything else. He was quick to laugh; she was quick to anger. He was charming and likable and outgoing, while she was just sullen, aggravating, and cold.

Or so she’d been told.

“It’s not fair,” she said for what felt like the hundredth time since she had returned from France a week prior. “They have no right to send me back to school—”

Madoc sighed.

“You’re sixteen, Maevey,” he said, using his childhood nickname for her that he still insisted on uttering despite her many protests, and then threats. “You still have two years left of school. Of course Mother and Father weren’t going to let you drop out.”

Her lip curled at several second-years that boarded the train with shrill laughter. “I don’t _need_ school. I’m more advanced than any other student.”

“Except Riddle,” he said, ignoring her murderous look.

“I know magic that isn’t even _taught_ —”

Madoc cleared his throat loudly, cutting off what was sure to be another of her long-winded tirades as their parents approached them, back from whatever other pure-blood families they had been talking to. 

Vindictus and Eve Rosier cut striking figures on the crowded platform with their expensive robes and sharp features, though in contrasting ways. Dark, heavy-browed, hulking Vindictus, with his many glimmering rings and ivory-tipped cane, was the shadow to pale, beautiful, silver-haired Eve. Despite their differences, they both exhumed a presence that demanded attention; an expectation that when they spoke, they would be heard, and when they commanded, they would be obeyed.

Unaware of Maeve’s mutiny, or perhaps unheeding of it, Eve stepped forward and wrapped Madoc in a tight hug. Madoc’s growth spurt had already put him a head taller than their mother, so she had to reach up to plant a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“Enjoy your time,” she said in her cool, airy voice. She rubbed his arms, and Maeve had to refrain from gagging at her mother’s doting. “Keep in touch. We’ll see you at Christmas, my love.”

“Take care, Mother,” Madoc said kindly. “I love you.”

Vindictus said nothing, only clapping Madoc’s shoulder, but that wasn’t unusual; their father was not a wizard of many words. After bidding them farewell, Madoc left Maeve alone to board the train. She stared after him, affronted, but she couldn’t blame him for fleeing the inevitable last-ditch effort she was about to unleash on their parents.

“Follow your brother,” Eve said softly, but her dark blue eyes sparkled with warning. “We’ll write to you whenever we get the chance.”

Maeve’s hand tightened on the trolley holding her school trunk. “I don’t want to go back.”

Eve scoffed, looking to her husband in exasperation. “I warned you that sending her to visit your sister was a bad idea. Just look! She thinks that just because she gathered some firsthand knowledge of the world, she has no use for her education! Vinda’s poisoned her—”

Vindictus held up a hand, silencing his wife.

“You will board the train, girl,” he said to Maeve, his voice rumbling in his chest like the growl of some great wolf, “and you will behave. I told you we would speak of your future before your seventh year, and you will heed that, do you understand?”

Maeve seethed. “Then why send me to France at all? Why let me join Aunt Vinda and Grin—”

“Silence!” Eve hissed, looking around the platform wildly. “Do not speak of such things so openly!”

Vindictus stared at Maeve, impassive, but if possible, his black eyes had darkened even more at her words.

“Get on the train,” he said lowly, “or I will make you.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. It was like staring at a distorted reflection of herself; she and Madoc both favored their father’s features and coloring over their mother’s, down to the square of their jaws and the point of their chins. The only trace of Eve in Maeve’s face was her slim nose over Vindictus’s hooked one.

After several tense seconds, Maeve shoved her trolley forward.

“Fine,” she said. “Good-bye.”

She stormed toward the train without another word. A shiver licked down her spine as she recalled the look in her father’s eyes, but it wasn’t because she had been afraid of _him_.

He had been afraid of her.

* * *

Tom Riddle folded his newspaper and set it down in the seat next to him as the door of his compartment on the Hogwarts Express slid open, revealing Madoc Rosier on the threshold.

The boy grinned and said, “Wotcher, Riddle,” before dragging his trunk into the compartment and storing it in the overhead bin without waiting for Riddle’s reply.

Normally, this slight would have bothered Riddle, but he knew better. He’d shared a dormitory with Madoc for the past five years; he knew how the other boy breathed, thought, slept, ate. Madoc was a bit of a rebel, hardly adhering to custom or protocol, but his loyalty to Riddle was unwavering—the perfect lieutenant.

If Riddle cared for such things, he would almost consider Madoc Rosier a friend.

“Madoc,” Riddle said smoothly, inclining his head in greeting. It had taken months for the name to settle in Riddle’s mouth without tasting like dirt. First names implied familiarity; intimacy. He had wanted no part in it when he’d arrived at Hogwarts, intent as he was to keep everyone at arm’s length, but the Rosier boy had been persistent. _Rosier is just a fancy title,_ he’d complained. _And I have a sister. Just call me Madoc._ “Good holiday?”

The other boy shrugged as he flopped into his seat, years of manners lessons thrown out the window as soon as he was aboard the train. “Decent. Nothing more, nothing less.”

He didn’t ask Riddle about his own holiday. They had all learned never to ask about Riddle’s other life—his life outside of Hogwarts, outside of the Wizarding world.

“I stayed home,” Madoc continued, “but Maeve went to France—”

As if her brother saying her name had summoned her, the devil herself strutted into the compartment, lugging her trunk with practiced poise. Madoc rushed to help his twin sister, but Riddle remained rigid in his seat as Maeve Rosier’s eyes found him.

“Hello, Riddle,” she said. Her lips—painted with the signature shade of garnet that she’d begun using at the beginning of their fifth year—curled in a sneer. He’d never despised a color more. “Have a good time at the orphanage this summer?”

He smiled—a cold, bland thing. “I did, in fact.” He pictured Billy Stubbs’s face, covered in blood, while he begged Riddle to stop. “An exceedingly good one.”

Her sneer widened. “I thought so. Like calls to like. It’s no wonder the filth in your blood calls to the filth of the Muggle world.”

Madoc, done storing his sister’s trunk, glanced between the two warily.

“Maeve, if you’re going to be insufferable, find a different compartment,” he said with bone-deep exhaustion. “I don’t think I can stomach you two sizing each other up for a kill this early in the day.”

But this was the way things had always been, ever since Tom Riddle and Maeve Rosier met for the first time precisely five years ago, on the very same train.

Riddle had been a pathetic child back then. Even now, the reminder of his past weakness made him sick. He’d been alone on the Hogwarts Express until two other children his age had breezed into his compartment together. He’d known immediately that their upbringing had been entirely different from his own. Their hair and shoes had shone, and the fabric of their clothing was obviously expensive and tailored perfectly. It wasn’t until he saw them that he realized how drab and dull he looked in comparison.

The thought had made his blood boil.

The boy and the girl were obviously twins. They had the same black hair, the same dark eyes, the same olive skin, the same strong face and thick eyebrows. But the boy had smiled easily at Riddle, while the girl’s gaze carved him up like he were a piece of meat.

“Hi!” the boy had said. “I’m Madoc—Madoc Rosier. This is my sister, Maeve.”

“Tom Riddle,” Riddle had said quickly.

“Riddle?” the boy named Madoc said. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

“He’s probably a Mudblood, Madoc,” his sister had said, disdainful. She’d glared at Riddle as if his very existence reviled her. “He’s not one of us. Let’s find another compartment.”

But Madoc had shrugged her off when she’d tried to tug him back out.

“You go,” he’d told her. “I’m staying here.”

The girl had seemed shocked, like no one had ever rejected her before, until she’d caught Riddle staring and scowled.

“Fine,” she shot at her brother. “Have fun with your new _pet_.”

She’d given Riddle one last sneer before stalking out of the compartment, leaving him alone with her brother.

“Sorry about her,” Madoc had said with a dirty look after her. “She’s not exactly the nicest person. Or even just _nice_ …”

But Riddle had been burning—with questions, a desire to _know_ , and, for some reason, shame. Even though he hadn’t understood the reason why the girl seemed repulsed by him, her scorn had still raked him the wrong way.

“What’s a Mudblood?” he’d asked Madoc.

And from then on, Riddle had made it a priority to antagonize Maeve Rosier in every way possible. After all three of them had been Sorted into Slytherin House, Riddle had done what was in his power—and not—to make sure he beat Maeve Rosier at everything. It helped that he was naturally talented and gifted at magic, but so was she. If he brewed a potion correctly on the first try, then she would learn all that month’s Charms spells to get ahead of him. If she was the first to master a particularly complex bit of magic, then he would push himself to master something even more powerful. Their rivalry had spilled into hatred, and in turn, their hatred fueled their rivalry. He was sure that the only reason they hadn’t dueled to the death and brought the school down around them yet was because Madoc was forever their mediator, reining both of them in before they could cause bodily harm—or worse—to one another.

It didn’t help that they had both been made prefects last year. It only embittered them more. Riddle didn’t want to be her _equal_ —he wanted to be her _better_. Superior to her in every way possible.

But Merlin, would it feel wonderful to rip that sneer off that pure-blooded face of hers. Let her see what she thought of his lowly blood status then.

“Not to worry, Maddy,” Rosier said, caressing Madoc’s cheek mockingly as she sat down beside him. “I can behave myself.”

Madoc looked doubtful. “I’ll believe that when Merlin himself comes back to life.”

Just to rankle her, Riddle asked, sickeningly polite, “How was your holiday, Rosier? Your brother said you were in France.”

She tossed him a wicked smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Riddle kept the patient half-smile on his face despite his mind whispering _I will kill her one day._ To everyone in Hogwarts—except, of course, Albus Dumbledore—he was well-mannered, responsible, respectful, and possessed a disarming sort of endearment, especially with the girls. He had an appearance to maintain, and flaying the flesh from Maeve Rosier’s bones would hardly do.

“Maeve…” Madoc sighed, reproachful.

She rolled her eyes. “Very well.” She pointed to Riddle’s discarded newspaper. “Muggle news?”

Ignoring the clear note of disgust in her tone, he nodded. “There’s a war going on. It’s important to be aware of what’s happening in it.” 

She sniffed. “Your precious Muggles don’t matter. The real war is in our world—with Grindelwald.”

At the Dark wizard’s name, Riddle detected an almost imperceptible shift in the air. He watched Rosier closely. Her eyes avoided his, focusing instead on a point above his right shoulder. Her fingers tangled together in her lap, the emerald ring she wore glinting when it caught the light. Riddle tucked her reaction away to ponder at a later time before he turned to Madoc, clearly dismissing her.

“Any sign of the others?” he asked. “I told them not to be late.”

“I didn’t see them,” Madoc said carelessly.

A disobedience he would have to rectify later also.

No sooner had he thought it then the three other boys he and Madoc shared their dormitory with entered the compartment: Henry Avery, slight and fair-haired; Lucien Lestrange, stocky with a face like stone; and Abraxas Malfoy, with his imperious grey eyes and startlingly white hair.

“Apologies for the delay, my—” Avery stopped when he noticed the female Rosier, gulped, and hastily continued. “—Riddle. We, ah, got caught up by some third-years squabbling over a compartment.”

Lestrange grunted and shoved past the skinnier boy to take the seat to Riddle’s left. “Nothing a quick Bombardment Spell couldn’t solve.”

Malfoy wisely left Riddle’s right side vacant as he sat one seat down, saying, “You’re lucky the Head Boy didn’t see. He was right behind us.”

“Who’s Head Boy?” Riddle asked as Avery hurried into the seat next to Madoc.

“Tiberius McLaggen,” Malfoy said with a faint sneer.

Lestrange snorted. “Tosser.”

Riddle silently agreed. He didn’t like any Gryffindors, but McLaggen was the worst sort: vain and self-righteous.

The compartment full of Slytherins slipped into small talk as the steam engine rumbled out of the station and away from London, gaining speed until colors became blurs outside the windows. Rosier had thankfully fallen silent, choosing to read a huge leather-bound book in her corner instead, but Riddle was still annoyed by her presence. It kept him from speaking of more important matters with his followers.

It also kept him distracted with thoughts of what she was hiding.

* * *

At three o’clock, after the young witch pushing the food trolley passed through their carriage, Maeve got to her feet and smoothed out her school robes, her silver prefect badge gleaming on her chest. She left her book in her seat with a promise from Madoc not to let it out of his sight as she went to join the prefects’ carriage at the front of the train, doing her best to ignore Riddle as he followed her out.

She despised Tom Riddle more than anything, and to add to her anger, he’d noticed her slip-up earlier when she’d said Grindelwald’s name. She knew without a doubt that her interrogation would begin soon. It was Riddle’s nature; anything that could help him best her, he would wield to devastating advantage.

Sure enough, they had only walked past two compartments before a door to her left opened and she was pushed through by an invisible hand into an empty compartment. She whipped out her wand and turned with a snarl, but Riddle’s wand was already pointed at her, held aloft in a lazy, almost careless way.

Maeve swore at him. “Knock it off, Riddle. You’re going to make us late.”

Riddle only stared at her, a soft, dangerous smile playing on his lips. She hated that smile. She especially hated the way it made him even handsomer than he already was, with his neatly-combed and parted black hair, depthless grey-green eyes, and features that looked carved from marble and ivory. She hated _him_.

“What makes you so afraid of a simple name?” he said, his voice as soft and deadly as his smile. “I find it a fascinating concept—fear of a name.”

“Get out of my way,” she snapped.

Riddle’s eyes turned dark, like a storm churning over a raging sea. It made the shifting colors of his irises almost black.

“What are you hiding?” he murmured as if to himself.

“I could ask you the same thing.” At the imperceptible tilt of his head, she gave him a savage smile. “I only mean that I find it interesting how quickly you were able to produce Rubeus Hagrid’s beast as the true killer of that poor girl last year… After all that searching the professors did, only for _you_ to find the monster from the Chamber of Secrets and save the school from closing at the last second… I’m almost impressed, Riddle.”

“That is an interesting theory, but a wholly far-fetched one, Miss Rosier,” he said, his smile and wand never once faltering. “I’m afraid that you’re quite wrong. Though that wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

She bared her teeth. “I’m never wrong.”

But an image of wide, scared eyes taunted her. A small, frightened voice. _Please, don’t, please_!

She took the image and shoved it down, deep inside her. Shut the lid on it and locked it so it couldn’t escape. Hid the key so she couldn’t find it.

Riddle gazed at her, the same look in his eyes that he always got whenever she beat him at something. The desire to best her. The bloodlust of accepting her challenge and vowing victory over her. She knew that look. Riddle was the only one who could compete with her.

The only one that ever stood a chance of conquering her.

And here she had presented him with the biggest challenge of them all: to find out her own secrets before she discovered his.

Riddle’s smile sliced into her with all the savagery of a serrated blade.

Before she could react, he pocketed his wand and opened the compartment door.

“I’ll see you at the meeting,” he said without turning around, and then he was gone.

Maeve loosed a shaky breath and put away her own wand. Alone in the compartment, she fumbled in the dark of her mind until she found the key again. She unlocked the chest of her memories and peeked inside. The image rushed back to her with sickening clarity.

 _Please, don’t, please_!

That was the problem with hiding your own memories, she thought.

You always knew where to find them still. 


	2. Thestrals

When the Hogwarts Express finally arrived at Hogsmeade Station, Maeve disembarked immediately to escape Riddle’s antagonizing gaze and knowing smirk that had pricked at her since the prefects’ meeting. Madoc followed her, probably in an attempt to smother her temper that had been steadily rising since that morning, but failed utterly when she was caught behind a giggling mass of fourth-year girls blocking her exit.

Maeve shoved through them with a snarl. “Move, gremlins.”

Madoc trailed after her through the insulted girls, resigned. “Sorry, ladies. My sister must be ill…Something about a bad pumpkin pasty…”

He touched down beside her on the platform, his black school robes billowing around him. “What’s your problem now?”

“Riddle.” She nearly spat the word.

Madoc rolled his eyes. “Riddle’s always your problem.” He studied her face closely. She stared back at him with the haughtiest look she could muster in her frazzled state. “What did he do?” His hands clenched at his sides. “If he did something beyond the usual—”

She shook her head. “He didn’t.” It was the one thing she and Riddle had never stooped to: physical violence. As if she would deign to touch him in the first place. “He’s just a wretched excuse for a wizard.”

Her brother said nothing. There was nothing he _could_ say that hadn’t been said a thousand times before. “Well, let’s just find a carriage, yeah? I’m starving.”

He led the way to the edge of the platform where a line of carriages waited to escort the students to Hogwarts Castle. Maeve followed, seething, so absorbed in her thoughts that she hardly noticed that the usual carriages—which had never been drawn by anything before and seemed to move of their own accord through whatever spell was cast upon them—were now led by black, leathery horses with wings like a bat and sharp, curved beaks.

Maeve’s legs stopped working. She halted in her tracks, trapped in place like someone had used a Freezing Charm on her. She recalled the creatures through a description in her copy of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ , and her breath caught in her lungs, compressing so tightly it seemed her chest would cave in right then and there.

Thestrals. The carriages were drawn by thestrals. All these years, and she suddenly understood how the carriages were able to move.

All these years, and she suddenly understood how she could see them now.

Madoc noticed she wasn’t following and turned back to her with a frown. “Maeve?”

She was stone. Stone and air that clawed against her ribs, begging for her to breathe.

_Please, don’t, please!_

Someone bumped into her from behind, sending her sprawling in the dirt. Madoc rushed to her side as she sat up, spitting hair and grass from her mouth.

Tom Riddle and his gang of sycophants had appeared. Lucien Lestrange sneered down at her as Henry Avery and Abraxas Malfoy smothered their laughter, and she reckoned that the bulky Slytherin boy had been the one to shove her. Tom Riddle did nothing. He always did nothing except glare at her with those green-grey eyes that promised pain and humiliation.

The thought of him looking down on her made her shoot to her feet, narrowly missing clipping Madoc’s nose with her shoulder as she thrust her hand into her robes and pulled out her wand.

“Maeve, don’t,” Madoc pleaded. “I’m sure it was just an accident. Right, Lestrange?”

“Of course,” Lestrange replied with a nasty grin that screamed otherwise. “A complete accident.”

“Put your wand away, Rosier,” Malfoy drawled. “You wouldn’t want Headmaster Dippet to expel you right when we got back, would you?”

“I’d love a reason for him to,” she snarled. “I don’t need him or this ruddy school anymore.”

The Slytherin boys whistled and laughed. Riddle simply stared at her.

“Maeve.” Madoc’s voice had taken on a desperate edge. She barely felt his hand on her elbow, trying to force her arm down. Rage, embarrassment, guilt—it all swirled inside of her so fast she thought she might be sick. “Please. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Yes, Rosier,” Riddle said. His eyes bored into her with all the intensity of a serpent sizing up its prey. “Listen to your brother. We wouldn’t want you thrown out when our fun is just beginning, would we?”

She glared into those eyes, so pale and so dark all at once. As much as she loathed the notion of remaining at Hogwarts, the temptation of beating Riddle, of revealing his secrets, was too much for her to resist. She had to beat him. She had to win.

When all was said and done, _he_ would be the one thrown out of Hogwarts, back to his miserable life as a dirty-blooded orphan in a world full of Muggles.

She pocketed her wand.

“You’re right, Riddle.” She raked her eyes over him, from his impeccably groomed hair and fine features of his face, down his tall and lean frame to the tips of his polished black shoes. “Let’s have our fun first, shall we?”

She didn’t wait for an answer before boarding one of the carriages, Madoc right behind her. She ignored the ugly laughs of the Slytherin boys, but above all, she ignored the way her own reflection had looked in the milky white eyes of the thestrals as she’d passed.

Like Death in the form of a small and frightened girl.

* * *

The Great Hall was too bright.

Hundreds of floating candles gleamed off the empty golden platters and goblets along the four House tables when Maeve and Madoc entered with the other students. Maeve instinctively squinted her eyes as they were swept along to the far left-side of the Hall, toward the Slytherin table, already feeling the pulse of a headache in her temples.

“I’m going to sit with the lads for the feast,” Madoc said to her as they neared the table. He shot her an apologetic look that she ignored, knowing that he meant Riddle and his other roommates. “I’ll see you later?”

“Whatever,” she muttered. She spotted her own roommates and directed her footsteps toward them. “Enjoy yourself, brother.”

She marched away and threw herself down on the bench next to Grinelda Burke. Across from her sat Isadore Travers, Lilith Rowle, and Ursa Fawley. All the girls looked startled by her sudden appearance, but when they realized it was just her, they relaxed.

“Maeve,” Isadore greeted in her cool, slow voice. In the searing light, her blond hair lit up like a white flame. It made the ache in Maeve’s head grow worse. “Good to see you.”

She wanted to snort at the forced nicety. They all knew they would rather eat worms than be in each other’s company, but for the sake of appearances and Sacred Twenty-Eight unity, they accepted their clique and held to an unspoken vow of false friendship. 

“Isadore.” Maeve nodded to the other girls. “How were your summers?”

She already knew all about them, of course. The pure-blood circles were small, and talk passed through them faster than the lies that poured from their lips.

“Exceptional,” Grinelda said with an airy laugh. How the sound grated on Maeve. “We vacationed in Venice, as you know, and attended a gala hosted by the Italian Minister for Magic himself…”

Maeve tuned out their chatter, focusing on the ache that had spread behind her eyes and willing it to go away. She shut her eyes briefly, but when the thestral’s blank white stare flashed across her vision, she opened them again and pushed back that same ill feeling as before.

At that moment, Professor Dippet stood from his place at the head of the staff table and the Hall fell silent. 

“Welcome back!” Despite his thin, reedy voice, his greeting carried throughout the vast Hall. “Before we begin our feast, let us welcome the new students who will be joining us this year as they undertake the Sorting Ceremony!”

There was polite applause as the great double doors swung open. Professor Dumbledore, the Transfiguration teacher and Deputy Headmaster, carried a battered stool and ragged wizard’s hat into the Hall, leading a line of small, nervous first-years behind him.

While people began whispering about the first-years and placing their bets on which one would faint first, Maeve watched Professor Dumbledore set up the stool and Sorting Hat.

He looked the same as ever. His hair and beard had grown impossibly longer over the short holiday, to the point where he could almost tuck it into the belt of his midnight-blue robes if he tried. The ginger color of it had faded into pure-white, lending more credence to his age, along with the prevalent wrinkles around his piercing blue eyes, hidden behind half-moon spectacles. She wasn’t fooled by his appearance, however. Dumbledore was powerful—as powerful as Grindelwald, if the rumors were true—and possessed a certain spark of youthfulness that came out mostly during his lessons. Everyone in the school adored Dumbledore; even the Slytherins grudgingly admired his magical ability.

Everyone, it seemed, except her and Tom Riddle.

As Professor Dumbledore fished out the scroll bearing the first-years’ names from his cloak, Maeve studied his deft fingers and unwavering grip. Powerful, indeed. But there was something about him that didn’t sit right with her. A too-shrewd gleam in his eyes; an overly calculating brain that made her wonder if the Transfiguration professor viewed the world as nothing more than an impossibly broad and complicated game of wizard’s chess. Everything he said and did seemed far too premeditated to her.

She wondered if Riddle felt the same as she did.

She glanced down the table where Madoc had gone to sit with his roommates, the other retainers to Riddle’s dictatorship. Riddle himself held court midway down the table, his gaze fixed on Dumbledore as he began to call out names from the roster once the Sorting Hat had finished its annual song.

Maeve had grown to know Riddle over the years of their rivalry. Though they would both deny it, their intense scrutiny had given each an unsavory ability to read each other’s thoughts and actions. Thus, there was no mistaking the fury and hatred in Riddle’s eyes as they bored into Dumbledore. She had been on the receiving end of that stare enough times to know that in that moment, Riddle loathed Dumbledore almost as much as he loathed her.

As if he sensed her gaze, Riddle locked eyes with her. His face remained entirely impassive, but his eyes glowed brighter when he realized that she had been watching him.

Before that summer, she wouldn’t have dared back down from Riddle. He was her archnemesis, her mortal enemy. She would never let him win.

But that was before the summer, and before she could see thestrals. Before she had seen herself in their blank white eyes and the shadow that clung to the edges of her very being.

She looked away.

When the Sorting was finished and Professor Dumbledore had swept away with the hat and stool, Professor Dippet stood once again.

“And that concludes our Sorting!” He led the scattered applause around the Hall himself, his tall blue hat swaying dangerously as he did so. “Now, a few start-of-term reminders.

“As always, the Forbidden Forest remains out-of-bounds for students. Under no circumstances should any of you be tempted to enter it. The use of spells in the corridors and any other prohibited facilities is strictly unallowed and will result in detentions for anyone caught doing so. Quidditch tryouts will be held on the first weekend of term. Notices will be posted on all bulletin boards in the House common rooms with more detail. And lastly…”

The atmosphere in the Great Hall darkened. Above, the enchanted ceiling that swirled with stars also seemed to dim. Maeve watched the headmaster closely as his round face grew somber and serious.

“The tragedy of what happened before the summer regarding the Chamber of Secrets and the untimely death of Myrtle Warren still weighs heavily upon us,” Professor Dippet said. “That such a horrendous act could have happened here, in Hogwarts, is unspeakable.”

Maeve found her eyes wandering back to Riddle. This time, his attention was on the headmaster, looking like he was hanging on to every word being spoken.

“However,” Professor Dippet continued, “Hogwarts is committed to our students’ safety above all. And thanks to our very own Tom Riddle, the creature from the Chamber has been caught and the student responsible expelled. We all owe him our gratitude in helping keep our school safe and from being closed. Come, Tom, don’t be modest! Stand!”

As Professor Dippet led another round of applause (which was much more enthusiastic than the ones before), Riddle got to his feet at the Slytherin table. He waved and nodded like a gracious king would, acting the part of his charming, humble persona, his face split into a practiced smile of chagrin and pleasure. Beside him, his followers howled their approval, and Maeve saw Madoc repeatedly slamming his goblet on the table as he cheered.

Maeve didn’t clap. Around her, her friends cooed and brought their hands together in the dainty way their pure-blood mothers taught them, but Maeve refused.

She’d meant her words on the train. What a strange coincidence, she thought, that Riddle had solved the murder of Myrtle Warren and the mystery of who had unleashed the creature within the Chamber of Secrets all in one fell swoop, and how quickly he had so soon after news spread that the Ministry was moving to shut down Hogwarts. Yes, she thought, such a strange coincidence…

Riddle found her gaze again, his eyes screaming of triumph and vindictive glee.

This time, Maeve didn’t look away.

* * *

He was back at Hogwarts.

He was back at _home_.

Home. Such a funny little word. Before Hogwarts, he hadn’t had a home. The day he ever called Wool’s Orphanage home would be the day Hell itself froze over. The orphanage was all he had ever known until Dumbledore came to tell him who he truly was, but when the Wizarding world came within his grasp, he knew that all the orphanage had ever been was a liminal space with no value, no meaning.

Hogwarts was his home.

Tom entered the Slytherin common room with Madoc, Avery, Malfoy, and Lestrange on his heels. It looked the same as always: green velvet hangings and plush cushions, the roaring fireplace and the windows looking out into the murky depths of the Black Lake, the scowling silver bust of Salazar Slytherin on the mantelpiece and the serpent accents everywhere. He breathed in the scents of firewood, crisp eucalyptus, and the faint tinge of damp underground stone and instantly felt himself disconnect from that filthy world of Muggles to immerse himself in the one where he truly belonged.

The image shattered, however, when Maeve Rosier’s rankling voice spoke from behind him.

“Get out of the doorway, Riddle,” she snapped, physically dodging him to get into the common room. She huffed and straightened her robes while her roommates edged in behind her. “I know living in your dirty orphanage is bad, but I’m sure you’ve seen the common room enough times not to ogle at it anymore.”

She didn’t wait for an answer before spinning on her heel and stalking off to the passage that led to the girls’ dormitories, her friends following warily. Lestrange took a step forward, but Tom held up a hand. The other boy went still immediately.

“Leave it,” he told Lestrange. “She’ll get what’s coming to her eventually.”

Lestrange backed down with a nod. Ever the obedient dog.

While Avery, Malfoy, and Lestrange walked away toward the boys’ dormitories, Tom motioned for Madoc to stay back. The Rosier boy lingered at Tom’s shoulder, not quite tense, but certainly sensing that Tom was not in a mood to be trifled with. He had yet to come down from the euphoria of having the Great Hall applauding him—even that bastard Dumbledore had clapped for him. Not even Maeve Rosier and the vow of revenge in her gaze could take that away from him so easily.

“I’ll speak to Maeve,” Madoc said, uneasy. He cast a look to the passage where his twin sister had disappeared. “Granted, she won’t listen, as usual, but—”

“Leave your sister to me,” Tom broke in. His voice was quiet, but Madoc’s eyes snapped to him. “But, Madoc, I want you to know something.”

Madoc watched him, wary. “What is it?”

“I have great plans for us this year,” Tom said. “All of us.” His gaze also flicked to the passage. “And if anyone gets in the way of those plans, I will cut them down. If your loathsome sister gets in the way of those plans, I will cut _her_ down. Is that understood?”

Madoc Rosier had a mask as good as any pure-blood, but Tom could see the cracks in it now at the mention of the Rosier girl. Duty and love, waging a bitter battle.

It was fortunate that Tom had no such qualms to worry about.

Finally, Madoc gave a tiny nod. “I understand.”

“Good.” Tom led the way to their shared dormitory. “Now, let’s get to bed. I’ve been dreaming of my mattress all summer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought! Feedback is always appreciated!


	3. Enemies

Maeve was awake before any of her roommates. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence; she had always been an early riser, even as a child. Madoc was the one who would sleep straight through the day if he could. But what was an unusual occurrence were the nightmares that now awakened Maeve at every odd hour of the morning and kept her from going back to sleep hours afterward.

When she deemed it an acceptable time to tiptoe to the washroom to ready herself for the first day of lessons, she had already been awake for several hours. Her hair still clung uncomfortably to her cheeks and neck from the cold sweat that had coated her skin when she’d jerked awake with a silent gasp, and the purple bruises that had slowly been forming under her eyes for the last month looked more pronounced than ever. Resigned, she switched on the faucet and began scrubbing at her face.

By the time she finished getting ready, the sun was just rising, but her roommates still slept soundly in the adjoining room. She’d managed to take her appearance from haggish to passably-haggish, sealing her attempts at a bright and fresh face with the garnet lipstick she applied every morning. It had been a gift from her Aunt Vinda two years ago, but Maeve hadn’t been bold enough to start wearing it until the start of her fifth year.

“ _You’re growing into a beautiful young woman, Maeve_ ,” Aunt Vinda had told her. “ _Beauty has its own power, you know_. _Learn to wield yours, and you’ll bring even the most powerful man in the world to his knees_.”

Maeve had been skeptical, but she had always admired Aunt Vinda. Beautiful, cunning, talented with magic, ruthless… It was no wonder Grindelwald had accepted her into his ranks and allowed her to become one of his most loyal acolytes. Maeve had accepted the lipstick and eventually begun to wear it as a symbol of Aunt Vinda’s pride in her.

It was unfortunate that it wasn’t enough to detract from the utter exhaustion carved into every facet of her face.

Maeve dressed quickly and collected her things before creeping out of her dormitory. Despite the false alliance with her roommates, she preferred being alone. Even if it would only be for an hour or two before lessons, she would take whatever solitude she was granted.

Only a few seventh-years were up as early as she was, and she gave them a quick nod as she crossed through the common room. She made her way to the Great Hall at a leisurely pace and was one of only three students there so early. The other two were a second-year Hufflepuff and a fourth-year Gryffindor, which left her with the entire Slytherin table to herself. Her mood now brightened considerably, she pulled a bowl of corn flakes and a pitcher of milk closer to herself after bringing out her Charms book and settling herself in for a peaceful morning read.

While she ate and flipped hungrily through the pages of her new spellbook, more students trickled into the Hall. She hardly looked up when her roommates joined her, too engrossed in the new spells they would be learning that year. The other girls, used to her antics, simply chatted and ate around her, speculating what their first year of N.E.W.T. classes would be like.

“I hear sixth year is the year Professor Slughorn teaches us how to brew Amortentia,” Grinelda Burke said, wiggling her eyebrows and distracting Maeve from her reading when the others giggled.

“Oh, I can think of a few boys I’d like to try that potion on,” Isadore Travers said with a mischievous smirk.

Lilith Rowle nudged her shoulder playfully. “Only a few?”

“I know exactly which few,” Ursa Fawley teased. “One of them begins with an ‘R’ and ends with ‘iddle’—” She broke off when Maeve lifted her head and backtracked immediately. “Er, sorry, Maeve—I know you don’t like when he’s mentioned—”

Maeve snapped her book shut. “No, I don’t.” The other girls looked away, guilty and annoyed in equal measure, but she hardly cared. “Do continue, though. I’m going to get my schedule from Professor Slughorn and wait for our first lesson to start. Excuse me.”

She left her roommates behind and walked to the staff table, where Professor Slughorn—the Potions teacher and the Head of Slytherin House—had just squeezed his wide girth into a seat. He was busy spooning copious amounts of sugar into his tea when Maeve approached, but he glanced up and broke into a toothy grin when he saw her.

“O-ho! Miss Rosier! How is one of my most talented students this morning?” he asked in that booming voice of his, his ginger mustache wobbling above his lips when he spoke.

Maeve plastered a practiced smile of flattery and a hint of flirtation on her face. “I’m doing quite well, Professor, thank you.”

Slughorn swelled at the faint note of simpering in her voice. It made her want to gag.

“Excellent, excellent! Any noteworthy events from your holiday? I have it on reliable sources that you went abroad, though I’ve no clue where…”

“France, sir. Visiting family.”

“Ah, France!” he sighed, unheeding her stiff tone. “Such a beautiful country. The food and drink there are exquisite as well… Er, but you’re not here for that, are you, dear girl?” He winked at her conspiratorially. “You’ll be wanting your timetable, I presume? Of course, of course…” he said when she nodded. “I have them here. One moment…”

He extracted a stack of papers and his wand from within his robes with some difficulty. With a flick of his wrist, a paper zoomed out of the stack and into one of his thick-fingered hands. “Ah, here we are… ‘Class Schedule for Maeve Cordelia Rosier.’”

He handed her the paper and she glanced over it. Double Charms, a free block, Arithmancy, lunch, Double Defense Against the Dark Arts and Double Transfiguration that day, followed by Ancient Runes, Double Potions, a break for lunch and another free block, History of Magic, and Astronomy the next day.

“Thank you, Professor.” Maeve took the paper and folded it into her pocket. “I look forward to seeing you in class tomorrow.”

“As do I, Miss Rosier,” he said. “Welcome back and have a great first day!”

Maeve’s smile dropped as soon as she turned her back on the staff table. There were times she admired her Head of House’s uncanny ability to sniff out talent and bring it to the forefront (and his various famous connections around the world were nothing to sneer at, either), but sometimes she just couldn’t stand the man and his flashy ways.

She made her way out of the Great Hall, already itching to get to Charms and start practicing some of the spells she’d read about earlier. She was almost to the doors when Madoc walked in with Riddle, the rest of their roommates and some younger students following in their wake. Madoc looked like he’d just rolled out of bed with his messy black curls and crooked tie, especially next to the impeccably groomed Riddle.

Maeve went to shove by the group, but of course, Madoc recognized her.

“Maeve!” He waved to her with a broad smile, unaware or unheeding of the dirty looks his friends were shooting her behind his back. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Yes,” she answered without stopping, only to be blocked by Abraxas Malfoy when he stepped into her path.

“Now, now, Rosier,” he said, looming over her. His grey eyes glittered with cold amusement. “Manners. Ol’ Sluggy is watching.”

“He’s my brother,” she retorted with a glance in Madoc’s direction. “I don’t have to be polite to him.”

“But you do have to be polite to _us_ ,” he sneered. “Or else Sluggy might have to take points, and you so know how he hates losing the House Cup.”

“Take that up with him,” she bit out through her teeth. “Now move, Malfoy.”

He tutted. “Say please, Rosier.”

“Intimidating my sister isn’t how you go about flirting, Malfoy,” Madoc said tersely. “Let her pass.”

Maeve and Malfoy made twin noises of revulsion, but Madoc’s words succeeded in getting Malfoy to all but leap out of her way. He walked off, muttering darkly under his breath, with Lestrange, Avery, and Riddle following. She was left alone with Madoc, her face burning.

“I’m not thanking you for that embarrassment,” she said once his friends were out of earshot.

Madoc shrugged. “You never thank me for anything, anyway.”

Maeve’s bristled spikes smoothed a bit at her brother’s tone. She sighed and squeezed his bicep. “Thank you.”

His face brightened at that. He patted her hand. “See you in class?”

“Yeah.” For good measure, she stood on her toes and pecked his cheek despite his protests. “See you later.”

He spun around when she traipsed off. “I told you not to do that!”

She just smiled and kept walking.

* * *

Though he still complained about her public display of affection that morning, Madoc ended up sitting beside her in all their lessons, as per usual. Though her brother was just as smart, he preferred to let Maeve handle all the work, which suited her perfectly, making them a perfect match. She didn’t trust anyone else to not mess up, and the only way she could ensure the task was done properly was if she did it herself.

However, when she got to Double Transfiguration that evening, her last lesson of the day, she was alone. Professor Dumbledore was a teacher notorious for his high standards, and his N.E.W.T. class proved it. Any student who had received a grade of ‘O’ on their O.W.L.s were accepted into the N.E.W.T.-level Transfiguration class, and Madoc had only received a grade of ‘E.’ Thus, it was with a heavy resign that Maeve trudged into the familiar third-floor classroom, hardly surprised when she saw Tom Riddle sitting at the back, as far away from Dumbledore’s desk as possible.

Annoyed that he’d stolen her idea, Maeve settled herself into a corner desk in the middle row that would allow her to stay mostly hidden from the professor’s sharp gaze. She felt strangely vulnerable without Madoc’s presence beside her. It was the first class in six years that she had never had her brother with her. Hell, they had even chosen the same electives in their third year so they wouldn’t be separated. Now, she was…lonely.

Ignoring Riddle and the displeasure she could sense rolling off him in waves at the prospect of seeing Dumbledore, she dug through her bag and brought out all her supplies. She wasn’t thrilled about another year with Dumbledore, either, but by Salazar Slytherin’s will was she going to milk the man for all the knowledge he was worth.

At precisely five o’clock, Dumbledore himself strolled into the classroom, which was filled with barely over a dozen students across the four Houses. He wore robes of sky-blue that day, which matched his eyes perfectly and made his hair and beard quite resemble clouds. What few conversations had been happening ceased when he reached the front of the room and faced them.

“Welcome back!” he said, spreading his arms in a welcoming gesture. Maeve hunkered down in her seat. “I’m glad to see so many returning faces for our first year of N.E.W.T. Transfiguration. Our last term was one filled with many unfortunate and troubling circumstances, but it is my pleasure to welcome you all back to a new year of new beginnings and new knowledge.”

Maeve thought the professor’s piercing gaze had drifted to Riddle during his last statement, but when she checked, Dumbledore had gone back to smiling serenely at the class.

“So, let us begin.” Dumbledore clapped his hands. “If you will all kindly open your copies of _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ to page eight… Now, if you were proactive over your _relaxing_ holiday,” he said with a humorous grin, “you might already be accustomed to the theory of human Transfiguration. Who can give me an example of human Transfiguration? Ah, yes. Mr. Riddle.”

Riddle’s hand had beaten hers into the air by half a second. He threw her a smug look before answering as if he had written the passage himself. 

“Human Transfiguration is a sub-branch of Transfiguration and a form of transformation in which one transfigures human body parts or an entire human being into another form. An example of human Transfiguration would be using the Color-Morph Spell to change the color of your hair, skin, or eyes.”

“Well said. Five points to Slytherin,” Dumbledore said coolly. “Now, who can tell us the ways in which Metamorphagi, Animagi, and human Transfiguration differ? Miss Rosier?”

Maeve had been prepared. She lowered her arm and began reciting the criteria.

“Metamorphagi are inherently born with the ability to change their appearance at will without the use of a wand or spell. Human Transfiguration is a practiced form of magic requiring both a wand and a spell, though those skilled enough can often perform transformations nonverbally or without a wand, and they can also transfigure themselves into either animate or inanimate objects. Animagi are specifically witches or wizards who undergo a lengthy process to be able to transform themselves into an animal at their discretion, and must be registered with the Ministry of Magic to perform such transformations.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Dumbledore chirped. “Another five points for Slytherin.”

Maeve scowled. A measly five points? That explanation was worth ten. But then again, Dumbledore always did play favorites, especially when his precious _Gryffindors_ were involved…

“This term will—as you’ve undoubtedly noticed—revolve exclusively around human Transfiguration,” Dumbledore continued. “As such, I’ve whipped up a long-term project for you all, to be worked on in pairs.” Mutters of both excitement and apprehension broke out until Dumbledore raised a hand. “The project centers on the idea that by the end of the term, just before the winter holidays, you will be able to perform a successful human Transfiguration on your partner. Grades will be determined on collaboration, dedication, and what ability you possess to transfigure your partner’s appearance.” He snapped his fingers and a piece of parchment appeared in his hand. “I, of course, have already done you all the courtesy of assigning you a partner.”

Groans met his words and the amused twinkle in his eye as he began to call out names. “Miss Blair, you will be partnered with Mr. Griffiths. Mr. Hightower, you will be with Mr. Edgecombe. Miss Rosier, with Mr. Riddle—”

Dumbledore cut off when both Maeve and Riddle jumped to their feet, their chairs scraping loudly in tandem across the flagstone floors.

_“What?”_ they exclaimed at the same time.

“Miss Rosier, with Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore replied calmly. “I’m sorry; you must not have heard me properly the first time…”

Maeve had heard the old man properly enough. _Her?_ Partnered with _Riddle?_ It was preposterous! Every person in the school—student, staff, or ghost—knew that Maeve and Riddle despised each other. They would never get along. And daft, _daft_ Dumbledore now wanted to partner them.

“No,” Maeve said at once. She jabbed a finger in Riddle’s direction. “I refuse to work with _him._ ”

“For once, I agree with Miss Rosier,” Riddle said, looking as if he were chewing on glass. “Professor, surely you’re aware that Rosier and I have never been able to work in a professional—well, _any_ —capacity together—”

“If you wish to appeal your partnership, you will wait and do so when you are not disrupting my class,” Dumbledore said, injecting a hint of steel into his voice. “Or would you both care to lose the ten points you just gained for Slytherin House?”

Maeve wouldn’t have cared if she lost fifty points, but her mouth failed to form words. She just stood, gaping, while Riddle reluctantly sat down, his hands clenched into fists. Eventually, Maeve slumped into her seat, but more from a lack of feeling in her legs than obedience.

“Good.” Dumbledore cleared his throat. “As I was saying…”

Maeve didn’t pay attention the rest of the lesson. Rage, indignance, disbelief—they all roiled inside her, blocking out her hearing and causing a muscle in her eye to twitch. How dare that old coot? She was a Rosier; a pure-blood from a family of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. How _dare_ he force her into a partnership with Riddle, that filthy Mudblood orphan?

Riddle clearly had the audacity to feel the same as she did. Every time she glanced over at him, his eyes were already boring into her head as if he could make it explode just by willing it. Dumbledore was a fool. He was playing with fire, and Maeve was determined to make him feel the scorch of it.

When the bell rang, releasing them for dinner, Maeve strode to his desk, Riddle on her heels.

“This is _ridiculous!_ ” she hissed, planting her hands on Dumbledore’s desk and meeting his twinkling gaze. “I refuse to work with _him!_ ”

“If you would prefer a failing grade, Miss Rosier, I can certainly oblige you,” he said, calm as ever as he leaned back in his chair. “My decision is final. You and Mr. Riddle are partners.”

“Sir,” Riddle said, spitting the word out like poison, “you said earlier that we could appeal our partnership.”

“Yes, I did say that,” Dumbledore acknowledged, “but I did not say that I would grant your request.”

Maeve had the sudden urge to leap over the desk and slap that self-satisfied smirk right off his wrinkled face. “I can’t work with him.”

“I hardly think that is a fair assessment, given that you and Mr. Riddle have never worked with each other in the past,” he said.

“For good reason, sir,” Riddle said. His charming, respectful mask was on, but Maeve could see it unraveling at the seams as he realized that Dumbledore was not going to budge. “Miss Rosier and I don’t quite see eye-to-eye.”

“But you are both Prefects, are you not?” He raised one of his bushy eyebrows. “Surely you both have patrolled the castle together before?”

Maeve and Riddle side-eyed each other.

“Not exactly, sir,” Riddle said. “We typically divvy up the work, so we aren’t in the same vicinity.”

“So, it seems to me that neither of you have given the other a chance,” Dumbledore said. “Consider this partnership a solution to rectify that problem, if you will.”

Riddle’s fingers flexed. “Sir—”

“Fail or learn to cooperate,” Dumbledore said. “That is the choice now laid out before you both.” Dumbledore frowned at Riddle. “Tom.” Riddle flinched at the name. “I know you have high aspirations to work in the Ministry of Magic. A failing grade would hardly do, would it?”

Riddle’s composure slipped, and Maeve thought he might tear into the old man’s throat before Dumbledore turned on her.

“And Miss Rosier. I do admit to not knowing your goals in the future, but I believe you are wise enough to see that your pride hardly outweighs a matter so trivial years from now.”

Maeve’s teeth ground together. She had her own ambitions—ones that didn’t involve Riddle. But she realized then that Dumbledore had unknowingly given her an opportunity. She glanced at Riddle’s rigid posture. She hadn’t forgotten about him or the Chamber of Secrets or the death of Myrtle Warren. And Dumbledore had unwittingly just handed her Riddle on a silver platter.

“Very well,” she forced herself to say. Merlin, the words tasted like dirt. “I’ll suffer for the sake of my own future plans.” She looked at Riddle with a sneer. “Don’t think I’ll enjoy it.”

“Manners, Miss Rosier,” Dumbledore chided lightly. “Well, Tom?”

Maeve couldn’t tell who Riddle would’ve preferred to hex in that moment more—her or Dumbledore. But he relented with a tight breath forced through his perfectly straight, long nose. “Fine.”

“Excellent.” Dumbledore clapped again. “I’m glad we could come to an arrangement. Tom, if you could stay behind a moment? That will be all, Miss Rosier.”

Maeve couldn’t escape that room or the two people she loathed most fast enough. Once she was in the corridor, however, her lips split into a wide smirk.

Riddle couldn’t begin to imagine all the things she now had in store for him.

* * *

When Rosier had whipped out of sight, Riddle forced himself to breathe evenly as he was left alone with the man he hated even more than the nettlesome witch.

Though Dumbledore had been the one to first pull Riddle from that dreadful orphanage, to show him that he was, indeed, special, the man had never trusted Riddle as readily or easily as others did. The teachers at Hogwarts had been eating out of Riddle’s hand since the moment “Tom” arrived at Hogwarts in his secondhand robes, the poor, polite orphan that he was, but Dumbledore had always kept him at arm’s length. A distrust had festered between the two ever since their first meeting, and it had only continued to rot like a wound, gaping and raw, as Riddle had gotten older.

Was it fear that made the old man so cautious of him? Or did Dumbledore just see through his façade as the good little boy more than anyone else? Riddle couldn’t deny Dumbledore’s genius—he would have to be blind not to—but the idea that one of the most powerful wizards alive was wary of _him_ made him both savagely pleased and irritated all at once.

“Sir?” Riddle said when Dumbledore did not speak. “You wanted a word?”

“Indeed.” Dumbledore laced his fingers together atop his desk. His veins stood out like harsh blue wires. “How was your summer at the orphanage, Tom?”

Riddle’s jaw twitched, at the use of his commoner given name and the mention of that wretched orphanage both.

“It was fine, sir,” he said.

“No altercations?” Dumbledore pressed.

None that Dumbledore would know of. Riddle had gotten very good at hiding his tracks once he knew that Dumbledore would be sniffing after him for any signs of misbehavior or other, more unsavory deeds.

“Not that I can recall, no,” he said with a placid smile.

Dumbledore hummed. “What is it about Miss Rosier that frustrates you so, Tom?”

He wanted to laugh. _Frustrate?_ That was hardly the word he would use to describe Maeve Rosier, the blood-supremacist bitch.

“Nothing more than a silly school rivalry, sir,” he replied with his most charming grin. It only made Dumbledore frown in response. “As you know, Miss Rosier and I are both vying for the top spot in our class. It’s only natural that we clash heads sometimes. We’re both very…obstinate.”

Merlin, that almost sounded like a _compliment_. He wanted to retch.

Dumbledore hummed again. Riddle could tell he didn’t believe him, but all Dumbledore said was, “Well, I hope this project gives you both an opportunity to overcome such a petty thing. You are both brilliant students, and I believe that you both can have…an effect on the other that may help curb such obstinacy.” Dumbledore stood. “But then again, who knows? I have never claimed to know everything.” He chuckled. “Come, Tom; let us get to dinner before all the treacle tarts are gone, hm?”

Riddle had no choice but to follow the old wizard, cursing him and Maeve Rosier with every step. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought! Questions/thoughts/feedback are always appreciated!


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